


We'll never be those kids again

by Ruta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Conversations, F/M, Feels, Love Confessions, Missing Scene, Season Finale, What-If, post-reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 23:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19756138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruta/pseuds/Ruta
Summary: "Why did you tell me?"Jon rests his forehead against hers. The closeness seems to hurt him and appease the flames that burn behind his eyes at the same time. "You said earlier you would have said it. You accused me of being a coward."Sansa traces the outline of his jaw and chin with her fingertips. She can't look away. "Are you?"(Missing moment in 8x04. Sansa/Jon conversation after his true parentage is revealed.)





	We'll never be those kids again

At first Bran's words make no sense.  
  
The story he is telling is a very different version from Father's. It is true and this makes it painfully imperfect. No longer cloaked in glory and sacrifice, but fully exposed in all its horror and finality, covered with thorns that pierce at the slightest touch.  
  
Sansa wakes up from that numbness when she hears Arya say with ferocity and passion, turned to Jon, "You are still my brother."  
  
Faced with that kind of fearless devotion, Jon's relief is palpable and heartbreaking to see. The tenderness with which he looks at Arya has suffused his angular face of sweetness, of a certain soft light that seems to sweep away his usually solemn and sullen expression.  
  
Sansa would like to reassure him as Arya has just done, to repeat words spoken under the snow on the first day of Winter, a promise that now more than ever would acquire value, depth. _Even if you're not a Stark, you are to me._  
  
Appalled, she hears herself pronouncing other words and receives in response scandalized looks and glances of discontent. They stare at her as if they don't recognize her. As if was a stranger facing them. Because she said, "You could be King. You are the rightful heir to the throne."  
  
This changes everything for her, it makes every carefully designed backup plan collapse. Not for them (and why should it? They only think about the pack. You think bigger, about a kingdom. It's a complicated and ungrateful job, but someone has to do it, check the pieces on the board.) Not for Jon apparently. The disappointment in his eyes and his grimace, as if he had just swallowed an incredibly bitter morsel. There is no surprise though. Almost as if he had not expected anything different from her, as if he had hoped for something diametrically different, but had prepared himself exactly for this. And, _oh, if it hurts._  
  
She opens her mouth again, but before she can say anything, whether it is to go back on her words or to develop that thought in a more favorable perspective for her, Jon prevents it. "We need to talk," he says. He grabs her by the wrist, almost dragging her away. Sansa follows him.  
  
They return to the keep, crossing devastated corridors, half-destroyed rooms, piles and debris. The smell of blood, death and dust hovers in the interior, stinking up the air like a nightmare. It sticks to their clothes, to their skin. It sews itself at the edges of her eyes and her mouth in wrinkles that may never leave her face again.  
  
In the end, after what seems like a fruitless and desperate search, Jon manages to find a room of his taste. A secluded room survived the ruin and massacre. Setting foot inside, memories resurface like rose petals floating in a basin full of water. It is the room where she and the other girls used to practice embroidery, under the strict supervision of Septa Mordane. The one placed near the window overlooking the backyard where Robb and the other boys used to train was the stool where Jeyne sit to spy on them secretly and that one is where Beth put her sewing basket.  
  
Longing surrounds her in an unwanted and violent embrace. Then Jon begins to talk and the sadness of the life that she no longer has turns into something sharp and angry. She hears what Jon is telling her, but she can't understand its meaning. It doesn't have to change anything, that's what he's saying. Everything can remain exactly as it is. Indeed, it must.  
  
She is tired and frustrated and above all feels humiliated by the way they looked at her in the godswood. She really doesn't understand, which infuriates her.  
  
"Why did you tell me then?" Frowning, she turns with a lightning and abrupt movement, the skirts slam against her ankles. "If nothing would have changed, if you didn't want anything changed, why was it so important that I knew about it?"  
  
Jon barely blinks, but there is something strange and vague about him, a pull in his cheek, like he is subtly embarrassed. He avoids looking into her eyes for too long, as if he cannot stand the sight of her. "Because it's the truth," he says. He's lying, but she can't guess why. He doesn't seem willing to add anything else.  
  
Sansa emits a noise particularly unladylike. It serves a dual purpose: although minimally, it allows her to vent her growing irritation, exacerbated by Jon's apparent calm; on the other, it captures his attention. He has finally stopped studying the wall and is staring at her.  
  
"Don't be deliberately daft. Why did you tell me?" She presses him. "It's a simple question, so answer."  
  
"I don't know!" Jon practically screams. He runs a hand through his hair and after a beat, almost murmuring to himself, he repeats in a lower voice, "I don't know, alright? I just wanted you to know." He narrows his eyes. "Why is it so important the reason? That's just it."  
  
"Coward." She lifts her chin. "If you don't want to say it, then I'll do it for you."  
  
He moves in front of her. They are so close that Sansa can feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. His chest raises in a perceptible and rhythmic way, his pupils dilated, the hard sulk of his mouth, his stiff soldier's posture. She too has shortness of breath, as if she had run. Her heart contracts and beats painfully against the ribs. Something similar has already happened in the past between them. More often than she likes to admit.  
  
She shakes the head. "Of all the men I have met you are by far the strangest."  
  
"Because you can't manipulate me?"  
  
The thrust hits, but Sansa is used to pain, to be doubted. Nothing is ever easy for her, everything must be a struggle.  
  
"Most of the time I don't understand you just like you don't understand me. We assume the worst of each other. When I saw you coming here with her, do you know what I saw? Littlefinger's last laugh. My biggest defeat. For the first time since you left, I believed his whispers. Then I talked to her."  
  
He freezes. For a fraction of second his eyes are crossed by a flash that, if it were anyone else, she wouldn't hesitate to acknowledge as panic. However, it's not anyone else, it's Jon, so she identifies it as anger.  
  
"With Daenerys? When?"  
  
"Just before Theon's arrival." Sansa slightly bends her head forward to hide the bitter smile on her lips. "Isn't it ironic? That it was her who showed me the truth hidden behind your act?"  
  
Jon takes a step back. By now every previous doubt has been swept away. His face is in shadow. She can't read his eyes. However he is nervous, as if she had touched an open nerve.  
  
"When she tried to convince me that she was harmless, while she professed her love for you, while she told me how she had let herself be manipulated to fight your war postponing her struggle for the throne." Who manipulated whom, she remembers. Along with the relief and the euphoria she felt at that moment, how she ended up laughing. "Do you love her?"  
  
He sighs, bringing a hand to his nose. "Sansa-"  
  
She won't let him escape. Not this time. "I've already asked you this question. You didn't answer me. I'm asking it again." Since Jon seems about to argue, she raises a hand. "You asked me to trust you and I am willing to give it to you. You want me to know the truth and here I am, willing to listen. I am ready to listen to it now, whatever it is."  
  
"You don't understand," he says and his voice, gods his voice, contains everything she had hoped for. At last she is beginning to understand and the air seems to weigh like steel into her chest.  
  
"Not yet," she admits. She licks her cracked lips and Jon's eyes dart downward, watching the movement with a fixed fascination. Encouraged, she takes a step forward. "I can. I could, if only you trusted me. Do you love her? Your dragon queen." He deflected each of her questions before.  
  
The smile he gives her is defeated and broken, speaks of a torment so deep that can devour a soul. "Not like I should."  
  
"I guess this will have to do." Light and low, his short laugh reaches her ears. Sansa lets herself be refreshed by the sound. "Now the other question, Jon. I'm sure she demanded you not to tell me. That's why you made me swear."  
  
"I also made Arya swear."  
  
"It was for me though," she insists. "The oath was for me."  
  
"Aye."  
  
"You could be a good King. One as great as if we haven't seen since the days of the ancient Kings of winter."  
  
He shakes his head. He has that hunted and stricken expression again. "It's not what I want."  
  
"We rarely get what we want."  
  
"Don't." He scowls. "I don't want that damned throne."  
  
"You may not agree with many of my decisions." She pauses. Finding the right words is not easy. Somehow she succeeds. It was he that offered them to her after all. With his actions. With his silence. "You know me. You know how I think. You don't approve, but you know that I will never bend the knee. I will not surrender the North to yet another tyrant."  
  
It is as if she had voiced his worst fears. He pales. "You won't have to." The intensity of his steady gaze, the security in his voice. "The North belongs to the Starks. You are and will remain the Lady of Winterfell. I will make sure none of this changes."  
  
To believe him is her greatest wish. However the time when she entrusted herself and her destiny to a man died with Littlefinger. "How? Sacrificing yourself?"  
  
"I'll do what I have to make you survive."  
  
Sansa feels her eyes moisten for what he is implicitly telling her. She wants to shake him forcefully. Her hands grasp his jerkin. They are trembling. Jon covers them with his. "You foolish, brave man," she whispers. She is not crying but feels the taste of tears on her tongue. "Do you think I will allow it?"  
  
He's got a desperate look in his eye and it breaks her heart. Jon touches her cheek. "You have no choice."  
  
"Do you really believe that? You gave me a choice. You gave it to me when you let Bran say your real name at the foot of the heart tree."

Eyes in the eyes, his hand is still resting on her face like the gentle caress of the wind.

"You haven't answered yet. Why was it so important that I knew? In the wrong hands, such a secret would be a powerful, dangerous weapon. It could change the course of the coming war, the history of our family." His life may depend on it. "You could have taken the secret to your grave. Bran wouldn't have betrayed you and neither Sam. You don't want the crown. What you always wanted was to be one of us. You were. You have always been. You still are. Whoever is your mother, you are still Jon Snow. You are still my family. Nothing has changed between us or on in the world's eyes. I'll ask you one last time. Why did you tell me?"  
  
Jon rests his forehead against hers. The closeness seems to hurt him and appease the flames that burn behind his eyes at the same time. "You said earlier you would have said it. You accused me of being a coward."  
  
Sansa traces the outline of his jaw and chin with her fingertips. She can't look away. "Are you?"  
  
"Not anymore." He kisses her. At first it's not kind. He has the desperate fury of a drowning man who fights against currents and waves. His lips are hot and chapped, his hands behind her neck tilt her head for more access. Sansa kisses him back, uncertain. Then something changes. Jon's mouth becomes soft and smooth against hers. He responds to her hesitation without showing traces of impatience. He leaves the command to her. When they break off, he kisses her forehead with a tenderness that makes her knees tremble. "Is this a sufficient answer to your question?"  
  
Jon rests his hands on her hips and Sansa digs her fingers into his forearms to support herself as she regains control over her treacherous body. She is a little starstruck.  
  
"When?" When it started for him.  
  
"In the crypts, just before leaving for Dragonstone," he responds promptly. He must have expected the question. "I nearly choked Littlefinger."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"He said he loved you."  
  
She bursts into an incredulous giggle. "So you attacked him?"  
  
"It was a simple warning." The tone is playful, he is squeezing his eyes like when he holds back a laughter. Sansa tries to remember when it was the last time she saw him so carefree. (It was one day ago, during the celebrations. He turned his back to the queen and laughed as you looked at him as if he had finally returned to you.) "But it was then that I realized that I was not driven solely by the desire to protect you. I was jealous." He rubs his nose against hers, pronouncing her name and adding nothing else.  
  
"Finish it, Jon. Say what you have to say."  
  
His face is lit by a light very similar to that with which he sometimes looks at Arya. It seems to illuminate him from the inside. It is joy, pure and simple. It makes the ghosts of the past recede, forgetting the worries for the future. Only the present exists, this empty and dusty room, their bodies strictly entwined like ivy.  
  
"I wanted you to know that I'm not your brother because I don't want to be anymore."  
  
It's an admission from which they can't go back, just like the kiss they exchanged.  
  
"What do you want to be then? With which name do you want I name you? Do you realize that there is a flaw in your perfect plan? Do you want me to know the truth, but you don't want the rest of the world to know it. What future can there be for us so? Is this what you hope to get from Daenerys? The North in exchange for your loyalty, your renunciation of the throne?"  
  
He touches her lips again, a quick kiss that burns like hot oil, like a mark or a wound that spreads inside her. Fills her with languor. "The North and you."  
  
 _My foolish, brave man_.  
  
She hates playing this role. Be the logical and rational part. She hates it knowing that as soon as she does what is necessary, she will have to observe the consequences.  
  
"She will never accept. Whatever you do, she will never let you go." How can he not see it?  
  
"Yes, if I can convince her that it's for the best."  
  
"You don't understand, do you? You refuse to see her for what she is. She wants you for herself. As I can't let you, Arya and Bran go, it's the same for her."  
  
And here are the consequences, thunderously quiet and incandescent explosions hurled like ice and stone at her. His expression grows sorrowful for a moment, shadows fall over his eyes, his forehead becomes grim. "You don't know her."  
  
"What I saw was enough." The way Daenerys removed her hand when she insisted on the subject of Northern independence. The desire with which her gaze follows Jon, the envy that she glimpses as she observes the loyalty that men and women show towards him. She feels intimidated and has every reason.  
  
"She is not our enemy."  
  
"For the moment." Reluctantly, she untangles herself from his grasp, pulls his arms away, lets her hands fall in front of her.  
  
"Whatever crazy ideas you are thinking, you must listen to me." He wants for it to sound like an order, but the plea in his eyes is impossible to misunderstand. "Don't stand in her way. You don't have to support her if you don't want. Just avoid to let yourself be involved. Don't oppose her."  
  
"You're afraid of her."  
  
"I'm afraid for you," he corrects her firmly. "Do you understand the difference? Promise me that you will do nothing that can be interpreted as a conflict. Later, at the war council, whatever she asks, I want you to consent."  
  
"At the cost of the people I have to protect?"  
  
Closed, hostile, as impenetrable as the Wall itself. What happened to the man who was her King? What about the promise to protect their home, their people?  
  
"It's the cost of peace."  
  
She feels something crashing inside her and the cold takes hold of her like never before. She feels petrified. Not at this price, she thinks. Better an honorable death than a life lived in dishonor. She pulls her shoulders back and presses her lips together in a thin line like a scar, a blade. "Then it's a peace that doesn't interest me."

**Author's Note:**

> We'll never be those kids again  
> Frank Ocean; Ivy


End file.
